Sketches by Benjamin Disraeli (read me like a book .txt) 📕

'but I consider my present distemper as not so much the result of solitude, as the reaction of much converse with society. I am gloomy at present from a sense of disappointment of the past.'

'You are disappointed,' observed Schulembourg. 'What, then, did you expect?'

'I do not know,' replied Walstein; 'that is the very thing I wish to discover.'

'How do you in general pass your time?' inquired the physician.

'When I reply _in doing nothing_, my dear Doctor,' said Walstein, 'you will think that you have discovered the cause of my disorder. But perhaps you will only mistake an effect for a cause.'

'Do you read?'

'I have lost the faculty of reading: early in life I was a student, but books become insipid when one is rich with the wisdom of a wandering life.'

'Do you write?'

'I have tried, but mediocrity disgusts me. In literature a second-rate reputation is no recompense for the evils that authors are heirs to.'

'Yet, without making your compositions public, you might relieve your own feelings in expressing them. There is a charm in creation.'

'My sympathies are strong,' replied Walstein. 'In an evil hour I might descend from my pedestal; I should compromise my dignity with the herd; I should sink before the first shaft of ridicule.'

'You did not suffer from this melancholy when travelling?'

'Occasionally: but the fits were never so profound, and were very evanescent.'

'Travel is action,' replied Schulembourg. 'Believe me, that in action you alone can find a cure.'

'What is action?' inquired Walstein. 'Travel I have exhausted. The world is quiet. There are no wars now, no revolutions. Where can I find a career?'

'Action,' replied Schulembourg, 'is the exercise of our faculties. Do not mistake restlessness for action. Murillo, who passed a long life almost within the walls of his native city, was a man of great action. Witness the convents and the churches that are covered with his exploits. A great student is a great actor, and as great as a marshal or a statesman. You must act, Mr. Walstein, you must act; you must have an object in life; great or slight, still you must have an object. Believe me, it is better to be a mere man of pleasure than a dreamer.'

'Your advice is profound,' replied Walstein, 'and you have struck upon a sympathetic chord. But what am I to do? I have no object.'

'You are a very ambitious man,' replied the physician.

'How know you that?' said Walstein, somewhat hastily, and slightly blushing.

'We doctors know many strange things,' replied Schulembourg, with a smile. 'Come now, would you like to be prime minister of Saxony?'

'Prime minister of Oberon!' said Walstein, laughing; ''tis indeed a great destiny.'

'Ah! when you have lived longer among us, your views will accommodate themselves to our limited horizon. In the meantime, I will write you a prescription, provided you promise to comply with my directions.'

'Do not doubt me, my dear Doctor.'

Schulembourg seated himself at the table, and wrote a few lines, which he handed to his patient.

Walstein smiled as he read the prescription.

'Dr. de Schulembourg requests the honour of the Baron de Walstein's company at dinner, to-morrow at two o'clock.'

Walstein smiled and looked a little perplexed, but he remembered his promise. 'I shall, with pleasure, become your guest, Doctor.'


CHAPTER II.


_Containing Some Future Conversation_


WALSTEIN did not forget his engagement with his friendly physician. The house of Schulembourg was the most beautiful mansion in Dresden. It was situated in a delicious garden in the midst of the park, and had been presented to him by a grateful sovereign. It was a Palladian villa, which recalled the Brenda to the recollection of Walstein, with flights of marble steps, airy colonnades, pediments of harmonious proportion, all painted with classic frescoes. Orange trees clustered in groups upon the terrace, perfumed the summer air, rising out of magnificent vases sculptured in high relief; and amid the trees, confined by silver chains were rare birds of radiant plumage, rare birds with prismatic eyes and bold ebon beaks, breasts flooded with crimson, and long tails of violet and green. The declining sun shone brightly in the light blue sky, and threw its lustre upon the fanciful abode, above which, slight and serene, floated the airy crescent of the young white moon.

'My friend, too, I perceive, is a votary of the Ideal,' exclaimed Walstein.

The carriage stopped. Walstein mounted the marble steps and was ushered through a hall, wherein was the statue of a single nymph, into an octagonal apartment. Schulembourg himself had not arrived. Two men moved away, as he was announced, from a lady whom they attended. The lady was Madame de Schulembourg, and she came forward, with infinite grace, to apologise for the absence of her husband, and to welcome her guest.

Her appearance was very remarkable. She was young and strangely beautiful. Walstein thought that he had never beheld such lustrous locks of ebon hair shading a countenance of such dazzling purity. Her large and deep blue eyes gleamed through their long black lashes. The expression of her face was singularly joyous. Two wild dimples played like meteors on her soft round cheeks. A pink veil worn over her head was carelessly tied under her chin, and fastened with a white rose of pearls. Her vest and train of white satin did not conceal her sylphlike form and delicate feet. She held forth a little white hand to Walstein, adorned only by a single enormous ruby, and welcomed him with inspiring ease.

'I do not know whether you are acquainted with your companions, Mr. Walstein,' said Madame de Schulembourg. Walstein looked around, and recognised the English minister, and had the pleasure of being introduced, for the first time, to a celebrated sculptor.

'I have heard of your name, not only in Germany,' said Walstein, addressing the latter gentleman. 'You have left your fame behind you at Rome. If the Italians are excusably envious, their envy is at least accompanied with admiration.' The gratified sculptor bowed and slightly blushed. Walstein loved art and artists. He was not one of those frigid, petty souls who are ashamed to evince feeling in society. He felt keenly and expressed himself without reserve. But nature had invested him with a true nobility of manner as well as of mind. He was ever graceful, even when enthusiastic.

'It is difficult to remember we are in the North,' said Walstein to Madame Schulembourg, 'amid these colonnades and orange trees.'

'It is thus that I console myself for beautiful Italy,' replied the lady, 'and, indeed, to-day the sun favours the design.'

'You have resided long in Italy?' inquired Walstein.

'I was born at Milan,' replied Madame de Schulembourg, 'my father commanded a Hungarian regiment in garrison.'

'I thought that I did not recognise an Italian physiognomy,' said Walstein, looking somewhat earnestly at the lady.

'Yet I have a dash of the Lombard blood in me, I assure you,' replied Madame de Schulembourg, smiling; 'is it not so, Mr. Revel?'

The Englishman advanced and praised the beauty of the lady's mother, whom he well knew. Then he asked Walstein when he was at Milan; then they exchanged more words respecting Milanese society; and while they were conversing, the Doctor entered, followed by a servant: 'I must compensate for keeping you from dinner,' said their host, 'by having the pleasure of announcing that it is prepared.'

He welcomed Walstein with warmth. Mr. Revel led Madame to the dining-room. The table was round, and Walstein seated himself at her side.

The repast was light and elegant, unusual characteristics of a German dinner. Madame de Schulembourg conversed with infinite gaiety, but with an ease that showed that to charm was with her no effort. The Englishman was an excellent specimen of his nation, polished and intelligent, without that haughty and graceless reserve which is so painful to a finished man of the world. The host was himself ever animated and cheerful, but calm and clear--and often addressed himself to the artist, who was silent, and, like students in general, constrained. Walstein himself, indeed, was not very talkative, but his manner indicated that he was interested, and when he made an observation it was uttered with facility, and arrested attention by its justness or its novelty. It was an agreeable party.

They had discussed several light topics. At length they diverged to the supernatural. Mr. Revel, as is customary with Englishmen, who are very sceptical, affected for the moment a belief in spirits. With the rest of the society, however, it was no light theme. Madame de Schulembourg avowed her profound credulity. The artist was a decided votary. Schulembourg philosophically accounted for many appearances, but he was a magnetiser, and his explanations were more marvellous than the portents.

'And you, Mr. Walstein,' said Madame de Schulembourg, 'what is your opinion?'

'I am willing to yield to any faith that distracts my thoughts from the burthen of daily reality,' replied Walstein.

'You would just suit Mr. Novalis, then,' observed Mr. Revel, bowing to the sculptor.

'Novalis is an astrologer,' said Madame Schulembourg; 'I think he would just suit you.'

'Destiny is a grand subject,' observed Walstein, 'and although I am not prepared to say that I believe in fate, I should nevertheless not be surprised to read my fortunes in the stars.'

'That has been the belief of great spirits,' observed the sculptor, his countenance brightening with more assurance.

'It is true,' replied Walstein, 'I would rather err with my great namesake and Napoleon than share the orthodoxy of ordinary mortality.'

'That is a dangerous speech, Baron,' said Schulembourg.

'With regard to destiny,' said Mr. Revel, who was in fact a materialist of the old school, 'everything depends upon a man's nature; the ambitious will rise, and the grovelling will crawl--those whose volition is strong will believe in fate, and the weak-minded accounts for the consequences of his own incongruities by execrating chance.'

Schulembourg shook his head. 'By a man's nature you mean his structure,' said the physician, 'much, doubtless, depends upon structure, but structure is again influenced by structure. All is subservient to sympathy.'

'It is true,' replied the sculptor; 'and what is the influence of the stars on human conduct but sympathy of the highest degree?'

'I am little accustomed to metaphysical discussions,' remarked Walstein; 'this is, indeed, a sorry subject to amuse a fair lady with, Madame de Schulembourg.'

'On the contrary,' she replied, 'the mystical ever delights me.'

'Yet,' continued Walstein, 'perceiving that the discontent and infelicity of man generally increase in an exact ratio with his intelligence and his knowledge, I am often tempted to envy the ignorant and the simple.'

'A man can only be content,' replied Schulembourg, 'when his career is in harmony with his organisation. Man is an animal formed for great physical activity, and this is the reason why the vast majority, in spite of great physical suffering, are content. The sense of existence, under the influence of the action which is necessary to their living, counterbalances all misery. But when a man has a peculiar structure, when he is born with a predisposition, or is, in vulgar language, a man of genius, his content entirely depends upon the predisposition being developed and indulged. And this is philosophical education, that sublime art so ill-comprehended!'

'I agree with you,' said Revel, who recollected the nonsense-verses of Eton, and the logic of Christ Church; 'all the scrapes and unhappiness of my youth, and I assure you they were not